


Inflicted Solitude

by Stella_STARgazer



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11383353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stella_STARgazer/pseuds/Stella_STARgazer
Summary: A glimpse into the life and mind of one of the most intriguing women at Wentworth; as told through a collection of vignettes.





	1. Sabbath

 

Joan had no use for religion. It was the one true thing her father had taught her, she thought; religion made people into sheep. An easy tool to brainwash the masses, making them bend to the will of those in power. It had never served her any purpose, not even on those darkest days in childhood, when she would cast her prayers to heaven, as her mother had always done (when her father wasn’t looking). It was useless, pointless, a waste of time and energy.

 

Yet, here she sat, straight-backed at the dining table, a small wooden box before her and the delicate gold filigree cross on matching chain, near weightless in the palm of her hand. It was the only possession of her mother’s that she had managed to salvage, having successfully hidden it from her father all those years ago. 

 

42 years ago to the day,  _ the hour almost _ , she thought as she ran her fingers gently over the intricate edges of the crucifix. 

 

Every year since, on this day, she had found some small way to honor her mother...and mourn the day her father’s “education” began. Since the death of her father and his omnipresent eyes, the routine became ritual. That year the day became her personal Sabbath, the only working day she would ever miss, if it should fall as such. 

 

She inhaled deeply and pressed play on her ipod, closing her eyes with a slow exhale as the speakers came to life with the first chords of Haydn’s “Creation”. She let her head roll to one side, hands gliding to rest in her lap, gently cradling her mother’s pendant as the memory seized her senses. 

 

****

 

_ April 10, 1974.  _

 

_ Joan awoke to the gentle caress of her mother’s hand on her cheek. With a deep inhale, her eyes fluttered open to see dark, tender eyes and the warm loving smile hovering above her. Her mother’s smile widened as she gazed lovingly into her daughter’s face. _

 

_ “Wake up sweetheart,” she speaks in a gentle whisper as she brushes a few strands of hair from Joan’s face. Joan raises up, sliding herself into a sitting position against the head of the bed, rubbing her still sleepy eyes with a yawn.  _

 

_ “Get dressed for school darling, and then come into the kitchen; I have a surprise for you.”  _

 

_ Joan jumps out of bed, quickly brushing then braiding her hair and getting dressed in her school uniform, eager to see what surprise awaits her in the kitchen. She squeals with delight as she rounds the corner and lays eyes upon the heaping mound of Lamington pancakes on the table. Her mother chuckles softly as she lovingly watches her daughter hop into her chair with an excited clap.  _

 

_ “I thought you might enjoy these; just don’t tell your father about them, it’ll be our little secret, hmm?” Joan nods enthusiastically, immediately diving into the stack as her mother serves it onto her plate. Her mother watches in ardor as little Joan eats, sipping her coffee with a smile.  _

 

_ “I’ve got something else for you too, sweetheart.” Joan practically inhales her last bite of pancake and wipes her face, her eyes wide with anticipation. _

 

_ Margaret reaches around her neck, unfastening the delicate crucifix that she’s worn as long as Joan can remember. She takes Joan’s hand into her own and gently drops the necklace into her open palm. Joan’s eyes grow wider as she watches the necklace coil in her hand, like a dormant snake awaiting the opportunity to strike.   _

 

_ Margaret folds Joan’s fingers around the necklace, closing her hand tightly over Joan’s as she guides her daughter to clutch the chain, a melancholy look settling in her gaze.  _

 

_ “My nana give me this when I was your age and it has always helped me in times of need. I want you to have it Joanie. Take care of it and keep it safe and it will help you too, “ she says in a low, sad tone. Joan looks at her mother in confusion, knowing how special the necklace is to her.  _

 

_ “But mummy, don’t you need it? I have you to help me.” Joan questions innocently. _

 

_ “No sweetheart, I don’t need it anymore, so I want you to have it. Keep it safe though; one more little secret for just us, ok?”  Joan nods in agreement to her mother, feeling special to have these shared, secret moments between them. She admires the necklace again, gently tracing the edges with her fingers.  _

 

_ A sheen of tears fills Maggie’s eyes as she watches Joan. Joan looks to her mother again, her joyous face suddenly claimed by a flash of worry.  _

 

_ “Mum, why are you crying?”, a deep furrow creasing her porcelain brow as she speaks. _

 

_ “Oh, I’m just happy to know you will have this and can cherish it like I did. I love you my darling, you know that? You are my world and I’ll always be with you in here, no matter where you are, ok?” She places two fingers gently over Joan’s heart and wipes her cheeks with the other hand, smiling tenderly as Joan nods in understanding; albeit the limited understanding of a ten year old child. _

 

_ With a deep inhale and clearing of her throat, her mother rises from the table with a sad smile, collecting the dishes and taking them to the sink.  _

 

_ “Now go brush your teeth and get your school bag while I wash these, then we’ll leave for school. And don’t forget your raincoat sweetheart, it looks like there might be rain later.”  _

 

_ Joan goes to the bathroom, brushing her teeth as she is instructed. Before heading to her room, she pulls a length of toilet paper from the roll and gently wraps the necklace inside. She returns to her room and places it in her pillowcase beneath her pillow then pulls the blankets up over it before collecting her school bag and coat.  _

 

_ Joan and Maggie walk the few blocks to school hand in hand. Joan talks of the upcoming spring and of all the things she can’t wait to do once the weather finally gets warmer. Maggie listens to her daughter intently, smiling and laughing tenderly at her exuberant tone. They reach the gate to the schoolyard and Joan’s mother stops, kneeling down in front of her daughter until they are eye to eye. _

 

_ “Have a wonderful day at school, my little fox, and fill that smart brain of yours with knowledge.” She says with a smile as she teasingly taps Joan’s forehead. Joan giggles with delight and nods enthusiastically.  _

 

_ “I love you so much my darling, you never forget that, ok?” Maggie coos, her gaze growing serious and tears just filling the corners of her eyes.  _

 

_ “I love you too mum.” Joan leans forward, giving her mother a tight hug, almost knocking her off her feet. Her mother chuckles as she catches herself and hugs Joan fiercely in return. She lets go, straightening her daughter’s coat before kissing her forehead and rising to her feet.  _

 

_ Maggie waves and blows a kiss as Joan walks inside the gate, turning to leave as Joan ascends the first step into the building. Joan turns back for one last wave to her mother.  _

 

_ “See you this afternoon, mum,” she calls as she waves. Her mother doesn’t turn back, as the tears began to cascade from her eyes.  _

 

_ \---- _

 

_ School had been out for half an hour and Joan still sat in the courtyard waiting for her mother.  _

_ Storm clouds were rolling in and Joan knew that rain was coming. She decided she’d risk her father’s punishment for walking home alone, assuming that her mother must have gotten busy preparing dinner and lost track of time, though she had only done that once before; the “correction” she had received from Ivan Ferguson ensured that.  _

 

_ She made it to the front door just as the deluge came. Stepping into the house she removed her wet coat and shoes at the door, before heading to the kitchen to seek out her mother.  _

 

_ A warm pot of Zharkoye sat on the stove with a fresh loaf of rye bread, but her mother was nowhere in sight. Joan walked to the laundry room at the far end of the kitchen and found it empty as well. _

 

_ “Mum?” she called as she walked back towards the family room. Getting no reply, she began making the rounds through the rooms in their modest home. She approached the closed bathroom door and saw a slip of paper sticking out from the door frame. She pulled it loose, unfolded it and read the message scrawled in her mother’s looping cursive. _

 

_      My little fox, _

_      I’m so sorry I couldn’t pick you up from school today, I was feeling unwell. _

_      Please go to your room and read until your father comes home. _

_     Do not come in the bathroom.  _

_     I love you my dearest. _

_                  ~Mum _

 

_ Joan folded the note and placed it into her pocket. She knocked gently on the door and called to her mother.  _

 

_ “Mum, are you ok? Mummy?” She leaned her ear to the door, listening for a response. After a lengthy silence she decided to enter, her gentle nature causing her to worry. Her heartbeat went into warp speed as the bathtub came into full view. _

 

_ Her mother lay eyes closed and motionless within; rust colored water enveloped her body, the water line resting just above her breasts. She was pale, so pale...and still, Joan thought as she cautiously stepped into the room. Joan took another step toward the bath, fear quickly building in her small body.  _

 

_ “Mum? Mum, wake up, it’s me.” Joan says as she moves to stand next to the tub. The silence in the room is deafening and terror quickly sets in. Joan reaches out to shake her mother’s shoulder and the coldness of her skin shocks her; she never knew people could feel that cold. She shakes her mother’s shoulder again, harder this time, and jumps when her mother’s head rolls forward, landing lifelessly chin to chest. _

 

_ “Mummy, mummy, please wake up!” she cries repeatedly as she sinks to the floor next to the tub. She sobs until she can’t anymore, eventually falling silent and still, knees pulled to chest, leaning her side against the cold porcelain of the tub, eyes eventually growing heavy from exhaustion and grief. She is woken from a fitful sleep by the booming voice of her father.  _

 

_ “What the hell,” he bellows as he steps into the door.  _

 

_ “Joan, get out….NOW!” he barks at her with a wild, angry look in his eyes. She wants to cling to him, needing his comfort and support, but she registers the blind anger in his gaze and clamors to her feet, quickly doing as she is told.  _

 

_ She lingers by the door and watches him for a moment as he kneels down at the tub to check for a pulse. He pulls away and grunts in disgust, snatching a towel from the rack by the sink to wipe the blood-tinged water from his hands. He rises to his feet and turns to see Joan clinging to the door frame, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.  _

 

_ “This is what happens when you let emotions rule, Joan. They make you weak and turn you into nothing. Just a lifeless corpse in a bathtub; it’s….pathetic,” he snarls, his voice dripping with hate. The tears fall harder and Joan hiccups on a sob. _

 

_ “Don’t cry for her Joan, she’s worthless.” he growls as he approaches his daughter in the door. He kneels before her and grabs her shoulders, squeezing firmly.  _

 

_ “Stop your crying now, it won’t bring her back. She left you, she left us….because she was weak. Now, go to your bedroom and don’t come out until I come to get you in the morning.” His stern eyes soften only slightly as he awkwardly pats her shoulders. She wipes her face in silence and goes to her room as ordered, too afraid to further fuel his anger. _

 

_ She lies awake for what seems an eternity, listening to the muffled voices in the other room. She can hear her father, and what sounds like at least one other man, as they talk in Russian in hushed and urgent tones. Eventually, she falls into a dreamless sleep, utterly exhausted and heartbroken.  _

 

_ \---- _

 

_ “Joan, wake up. Come on, it’s time to get ready for school.”  _

 

_ Joan sits up in bed, rubbing her puffy, blurry eyes as she registers the sound of her father’s voice. She squints to meet his stare and the memories from the afternoon before flood her brain. Her eyes begin to fill with tears as she looks at him, leaning forward to wrap her arms around his neck. He stiffens in her arms before hugging her briefly then pulling away.  _

 

_ “Where is mummy? Will she be ok?” she asks with trepidation as she releases her father’s neck and wipes the tears from her cheeks.  _

 

_ “She’s gone, just like she wanted to be, and that’s the last we’ll speak of her in this house, you understand?” There’s a coldness and sternness in his gaze that Joan knows not to question.  _

 

_ When she returns home from school, she takes her mother’s crucifix and hides it in the binding of one of her books. _

 

_ The following week, Ivan moves them back to Australia. _

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Morbid Curiosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this chapter months ago, but only just now got around to finishing it. As with much of this story, subject matters will be quite heavy.

Joan squints against the glare of the bright summer sun, casting her gaze out onto the horizon. Heat waves radiate from the hot, scorched land making everything in the distance look as if it were dancing; feverishly undulating in a desperate attempt to create a forgiving circulation of the stagnant, hot air. 

Her first summer here had been a difficult adjustment; the oppressive and unforgiving temperatures of southern Australia being something she was not accustomed to. When she had suffered heat stroke in the last week of school before Christmas, her father had put her on bed rest for a single day before sending her out in the heat to dig holes then refill them, saying it would help build her tolerance and character. She knew better than to argue and had spent every day silently praying for a gentle breeze. 

She did eventually acclimate to the change, and now, her second summer, she welcomes the heat against her skin. Every weekend as the weather has gotten warmer, after completing the chores her father assigns her, she slathers on a layer of sunscreen and heads into the dry paddock behind their house to go exploring. Her father never objects as it keeps her out of the way so he can do his business.

Equipped with an old tin pail, rust mottled from years of neglect, she sets out across the dry cracked dirt to the largest tree on the small tract of land. One, two, three...she counts the steps methodically, a habit that has grown more prominent since her mother’s death. 

The old mallee gum she approaches has long since succumbed to thirst, offering only measly shade in the cast shadow of it’s haunted, skeletal frame. The copse of grevillea at it’s trunk however, flourish in the arid conditions and provide a makeshift shelter where she can sit to collect rocks, leaves and the occasional flower to take back to the shade of the patio for cataloging. 

Setting her pail at the base of the tree, she begins making her way around the grevillea, looking for things to add to her growing collection of bush treasures. A large flat stone catches her eye and she reaches down to retrieve it and place it in the pail. As she lifts it, a twitch of something catches her eye. Slowly, she raises the edge of the rock and spies the small shingleback skink beneath it. 

Instead of high-tailing it under the nearby bush, it freezes, belly pressed flat against the powdery dirt beneath it. Joan reaches down and with a quick hand, pins it to the ground, gently grabbing it around the middle to pick it up for inspection. It wriggles in her grasp, but she grips it a little tighter and it soon gives up the struggle, again growing motionless in an attempt to play dead. 

She takes a seat on a nearby rock and brings the hand-sized skink to eye level, observing the mottled brown and white pattern and ridged scales. A fat blue tongue darts out into the air and Joan giggles at the brightly colored appendage. She sets the little reptile gently in her lap, petting it along the shingleback ridge running the length of its body. It remains still on her leg, blinking against each pass of Joan’s hand upon it’s head. 

Deciding she wants to keep it as a pet, she cradles the baby skink against her chest and sets about collecting rocks in her pail to build it some type of enclosure. Pail now heavy and the bottom threatening to give way, she heads back to the shaded comfort of the patio. Dumping the rocks onto the ground, she gently sets the skink into the pail, placing a flat piece of wood over the top and securing it with a rock. Across the patio she spies an old wooden milk crate and retrieves it to use for the skink’s new home. 

Along the fence row, tall stalks of sunbleached kangaroo grass bow in the unrelenting heat. Joan collects a large handful, tearing it to smaller pieces to line the bottom of the crate. Sorting through the rocks she collected in the paddock, she places two atop the grass for decoration. From the kitchen, she retrieves a jar lid and fills it with water, placing it carefully in the corner of the new reptile abode. She reclaims her new friend from the pail and places it in the box with a smile. 

For an hour she watches the little creature as it roams about the box, exploring the confines of the new home. A thought eventually crosses her mind and she pushes it aside until curiosity eventually gets the better of her. From the discarded pile of rocks she collects a heavy stone and goes back to the box to remove the skink. She places a tender kiss on its head, then sits on the patio, legs spread wide, setting the skink on the ground between her knees. She pets it for a while, smiling as it flattens beneath her small hand.

Finally, compelled by the burning curiosity in her young mind, she takes the rock in her hands, raising it above her head, then swiftly striking the small skink on the head. She pulls the rock away, brow furrowed deeply as she sees the carnage beneath. With a final twitch, the skink succumbs to death. 

From the kitchen window, her father observes the scene, a wicked smile contorting his stern features. He watches from inside until the tell-tale heaving of small shoulders gives away the sobs that now rack Joan’s slender frame. With a sarcastic snort, he makes his way outside.

“Why are you crying Joan?” Startled by his silent approach, Joan jumps and whips her head in his direction, salty tears dripping down her blotchy cheeks. 

“It...it’s dead.” She stammers through heavy tears, looking up to his gaze in hopes of sympathy. 

“Well, why did you kill it then?” Her jaw falls open, dark eyes wide as she looks up at him. He gestures with a nod to the stone in her hand. She looks down at it and lets it fall from her grasp. 

“I...don’t know!” She cries between heaving sobs, hot tears and snot coursing down her cheeks. He takes another step towards her, towering over her as he huffs in irritation. 

“Regret is useless, Joan, it makes you weak. Think before you act. Observation. Detachment. Planning. Always abide by those and you will never have cause for regret.” He stands over her a moment more, staring hard at the top of her head.

“Joan, do you understand me?” She looks up to meet his stern gaze.

“Yes, dad.” She nods, hiccuping through the tears as she wipes the salty trails from her cheeks. 

“Good. Now stop crying and clean up that mess. Supper will be ready in half an hour.” He goes back inside without another glance her direction. 

With tears still streaming down her cheeks, she goes to the garden shed to collect a spade. Using it, she delicately scoops the skink onto the blade and gently lays it down into the pail. She heads back out into the paddock, making her way to the lone gum tree. Dropping to her knees at the base, she digs a small hole and gently places the small carcass inside, scooping the powdered earth back over the makeshift grave. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers through the fresh flowing tears, vowing to herself never to harm another creature again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I DO NOT condone animal cruelty at all, I felt this was an important part of Joan's history. In 3x11 (when Fletch catches her talking to her dad's "ghost") her father mentions her "hurting things" when she was young, but I always kind of felt it wasn't something she did regularly. I wanted to address it here and thought it allowed for another "educational" moment from her father.

**Author's Note:**

> My intention for this is a collection of vignettes and memories to help explain Joan's character and actions. I find her to be one of the most intriguing, though morally questionable, characters on the show and have always wanted more in regards to her backstory. Pamela Rabe is an absolute genius in her portrayal and brings so much depth and dimension to Joan, so I sincerely hope we haven't seen the last of her (and I have a sneaking suspicion that we haven't). I've spent more time than necessary contemplating what could have made Joan the way she is and this work is my attempt to bring those inner thoughts to life.
> 
> The first couple of chapters will delve mostly into Joan's past; some pivotal moments that I feel could have shaped her to the woman we see that enters in season 2. Later chapters could likely shift into slightly AU scenarios, though my mind hasn't conjured that far ahead just yet!
> 
> Comments are encouraged, welcome and accepted with gratitude.


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